RITA CZERBÓ:
Could she have killed Frida Eidinger?
She did not have any apparent motive for eliminating her.
Could she have been the one who murdered her brother?
Yes. Boris had killed her spirit. The desire for vengeance and freedom might have blinded her. She could easily get into Boris’s room. Her suicide indicates that she could not bear the guilt, which is implausible in a crime committed by a resentful person who kills to win their freedom.
ADOLFO LUCHTER:
Could he have killed Frida Eidinger?
He might have done it to free himself of her persecution or out of fear that she would reveal his relationship with señora de Iñarra. He has admitted that he gave the main door key to Frida Eidinger. His alibi for the night of the 23rd of August is perfect, however.
Could he have killed Boris Czerbó?
Absolutely. He could have made the crime look like a clumsy attempt to incriminate him. The poisoned capsule and the half-burnt paper would be other evidence he fabricated to make it seem as if someone had entered Boris Czerbó’s room after he left.
GUSTAVO EIDINGER:
Why might he have killed his wife?
Jealously. The neighbours have testified that their married life was not a happy one. He has admitted it himself.
As in the case of Luchter, his alibi is perfect.
Could he have killed Boris Czerbó?
Yes, if he was the one who killed his wife. But he would have found it more difficult than the others to get into Czerbó’s apartment.
FRANCISCO SOLER:
Could he be Frida Eidinger’s murderer?
He has no motive. His alibi is good.
Could he be Boris Czerbó’s murderer?
They’d had an argument. Of all the people in the building he is the one who could most easily get into the apartment directly below his own.
EMILIO VILLALBA:
Why was he in the Czerbós’s apartment? Why has he disappeared?
Was his presence in the Czerbós’s apartment a mysterious sign meant to intimidate Czerbó?
A long pause told Lahore the reading had ended.
“The questions can be summed up in one,” he said. “Where is Emilio Villalba?”
“Emilio Villalba is a pawn. We can make it checkmate with another more important piece. The question is: who killed Frida Eidinger?”
8
Who Killed Frida Eidinger?
Soot had smeared its greasy fingers around the kitchen. The oilskin tablecloth smelt damp. A short, plump woman with a face as round as a coin was laying the table. A weak-looking young man sat waiting in a wicker chair. Even his cigarette smoke seemed to hang listlessly in the air.
“What’s up with you, Mum?” he asked in a voice that made its way lazily through the garments on the clothes horse. “Is this target practice?”
The woman planted herself in front of him with her hands on her hips.
“What makes you say that, che?”
“You threw the knife like you were trying to get it into my mouth.”
His mother returned to her pans.
“You’d better read the newspaper you’ve got there. Then you won’t go asking me what’s up.”
“Off you go again. My old man was right when he said women—”
“You mention your old man whenever it suits. You’re a sly one! What would he have said about taking on a lad we don’t need? And a fine one you picked. Trust you to get one who’s on the run from the police.”
“Are you crazy, Mum?” The young man rested his elbow on the table and turned his head. “What’re you on about?”
“Read about the crime with the German woman. They’re looking for someone exactly like the lad you took on yesterday.”
“Pah! You almost gave me a fright there.” The son unfolded the newspaper and looked for the crime section. “You’re great at twisting things. If you don’t want to spend the money just say, and that’s that.”
“I’ve a mind to give you a slap, you cheeky sod.” The woman carried the pan to the table, holding the handle with the edge of her apron, and poured the contents into two enamelled bowls.
“Read it, go on.”
For a while the sound of spoons on bowls and the crackling of wood on the fire reigned in the silent kitchen. The mother peeked over at what her son was reading. He finally raised his eyes.
“You know, Mum, you’re right,” he said, now on the ball.
The woman turned red with fright.
“What do we do now, Omar?”
“Tell him to get lost. Do you want to get caught up in it?”
“Be careful. What if he realizes and kills us?”
Omar let out a terrifying cackle.
“Don’t be daft! And lead them right to him? Don’t talk rubbish!”
“Take the gun with you.”
“’Course! What do you take me for? Get in the bedroom and lock the door, I’ll be right back.”
He went out into the dark yard. His boots crunched menacingly against the hard dirt on which a web of frost was already settling.
He went into the shed. The yellow cone from the lantern lit up a pile of sacks in one corner. A man with matted black hair was sleeping, half hidden by them. He jumped when he felt Omar touch his shoulder. Then he stayed very still, hunched in his rags, flattened against the shed wall like a praying mantis on a branch.
Omar scratched his head as he spoke.
“Look, che, I can’t keep you on. My old lady’s asking questions. She won’t part with a single peso.”
The other man listened attentively, curled up in his hideout. The words fell on his back like the cold drizzle that had whipped him on the walk from the village to the farm.
“You’ve no idea what my old lady’s like when it comes to money. If you don’t leave she’ll likely go to the police, and the Superintendent listens to her because my old man wrote off a debt for him and he doesn’t want her claiming it.”
The other man’s resigned silence gave him the courage to continue along his smooth-talking path of lies.
“Best thing is if you go early tomorrow before she gets up. Look, at four the freight train to Zapala goes past. Hop on, and off you go. No one will see you at that time. Have you got money?”
He noticed the lad’s eyes shining with interest. A brief parenthesis between fear and suspicion.
“No worries, boss.”
“Good.” Omar felt better. The lad was just a poor devil, after all. Some ideas the old lady had. “Here’s a hundred pesos. Go on like I told you.”
“Sure, boss. No problem.”
He had taken the money with a swipe and curled back up in rags and silence.
Omar crossed the yard clutching the gun, attentive to the slightest sign of footsteps behind him. He heard nothing. All that pursued him was the night, the cold and his fear. The shadows of apprehension closed around him, and opened for Emilio Villalba a path along which he could continue endlessly, leaving no trace.
The large group of onlookers was growing around the main door. Heads turned in time with the coming and going of the people gathered in the building’s lobby. When the car stopped next to the cordon on the pavement, necks craned to see who the newcomer was. It was the kind of crowd that forms outside weddings and funerals with the same festive air of curiosity about either happiness or death. Deserters from boredom and everyday mundanity.
Aurora Torres assumed a ceremonial air, unconsciously playing the role of band leader from childhood romería processions. Overcome with excitement, she was forgetting a detail that tormented her—the detail with which she, in turn, had been making nights hell for her husband: the presence of the murderer. Andrés Torres was shooting Soler appreciative looks like the kind seen among the public at races when the favourite steps onto the track.